


Bloodied fruit

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood orange - Freeform, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Incest, M/M, Masochism, Mild Gore, Purebloods (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 18:51:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18288173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: The further Rodolphus dug his nails into the fruit's flesh, the more Rabastan wished he could be that fruit.





	Bloodied fruit

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses or justification

From across the room, Rabastan watched his brother. Rodolphus was peeling a blood orange, slim fingers sliding under its skin and sinking into its flesh. It really shouldn’t be as mesmerising as it was. The skin was peeled back slowly revealing the dark segments to everyone. They were no longer around the table and there was no need for formality anymore, so Rodolphus dug his fingers into the soft flesh of the orange while he talked to old school friends. Rabastan swallowed, watching how the red juices were seeping across his brother’s skin, staining his nails pink. He continued to watch as Rodolphus raised a chunk to his lips and placed it on his tongue, with too much finesse, but his brother had always been elegant where he was ungainly. Rodolphus chewed ever so slowly, jaw working, mouth moving, before he swallowed, his throat shifting indecently, and his fingers already burrowing back into the pulp. Rabastan had never felt so jealous of an orange. But now he was. He knew he wanted those fingers on him instead. He also knew he wanted those fingers to do other things, things that were vile and obscene and absolutely gorgeous. Rabastan wanted those nails hooked under his ribs and wrapping around his neck, pressing into his collarbone and curling all around his skeleton. He wanted Rodolphus, his own brother, to be doing those awful things to him, all the while looking at him with just as much concentration as he was currently paying to his fruit.  
Rabastan had known, ever since he was young, that he was sick. That he’d let Rodolphus do atrocious things to him, hot, nasty things that would make other people shudder and wince just to hear but made _him_ shudder and groan just to think about. All to satisfy some craving for a darkness that went deep into his heart, some deep-seated need that was ingrained right into the very fabric of his skin. Ever since he could remember, Rabastan had had dark thoughts that ran like black rivers through his skull, always threating to burst their banks and spill sinister fantasies everywhere. He couldn’t help what he was, what he wanted, he had just had to accept that he was sick, and he had. It had been liberating that first time when he’d just let his thoughts drift into the dark; when he hadn’t tried to stop himself and had just felt the full force of the sickness inside him. He’d lay there on his bed, staring at the red ceiling, imagining that it was dissolving, melting and dripping hot wet red onto his forehead, sliding down his arms, and coating his hands. That red had become his brother’s hands, touching every inch of him, hands so hot and so good.  
He dreamed of Rodolphus being ever so rough. At first, it had been innocuous little things, just half-moons embedded into his shoulders, then it became long red lines scored down his back, then heavy teeth marks that permanently bruised him. He couldn’t remember when it had become something else entirely, when he had started to dream of bleeding for his brother, when he had started to dream of choking and heaving and gasping. There was no moment when he could pinpoint that his need to groan and whine under his brother’s hands, had turned into the need to sob and scream, only that it had. Nor did he remember the moment when the white fingerprints he wanted to mark his ribs had turned blue in his brain, or when he first wanted to be split open and have all the red inside him spill out. But he didn’t just want that for the sake of it, pain for the sake of pain was pointless, he wanted, no needed, for Rodolphus to do it, and not just that, he wanted Rodolphus to enjoy doing it.  
When he was younger and scared of being sick, Rabastan had pretended that it was not Rodolphus who stained every fantasy, he’d forced himself to see just a shadow, a darkness with elegant fingers and his brother’s voice. But eventually he couldn’t stop his brother’s true feature solidifying in his mind, the dark space in his dreams became filled with his brother’s smile and his brother’s eyes until there was nothing by his brother in every corner of his mind. Once, when he was young and drunk, he asked Evan if he felt the same way about his sister. Evan had looked at him like he was crazy, and Rabastan had learnt that his thoughts were not the thoughts that other people shared. They never went away though, as much as Rabastan willed them to, they remained a constant presence on his periphery. It had been the worst at school, when every meal time he’d had to watch Rodolphus with his elegant fingers digging into his food whilst leaning back and laughing, an arm wrapped around Bellatrix, his tongue down her throat in front of everyone. At the time he’d jeered and gagged with the rest of them and then he’d thought about it for weeks. Every time he saw him wondering what it felt like to have his brother’s lips against his own, to have his brother’s tongue down his throat, and his brother’s teeth biting into his lip.  
Sometimes, Rabastan wished he could share all the sick things that he would let Rodolphus do to him, wished he could tell his friends, wished he could tell Evan when they were sitting up after midnight. But he couldn’t because wanting your brother to do anything to you was the very definition of wrong. That didn’t stop the thoughts though, didn't stop them as they became more elaborate every time, he thought of them. If he was honest, these days there was very little he wouldn't let Rodolphus do, if only Rodolphus wanted to. He would let Rodolphus bite him, chew him, eat him if he asked. But that was his most scared fantasy, the one he reserved for special occasions, or when Rodolphus’ teeth were just being so painfully gorgeous. He would happily let his brother take bites out of his neck, suck on his and chew right down to the bones, or even better, he would love Rodolphus dig his fingers into his stomach. To be cut open ever so slowly, leaving thin stinging lacerations all over his skin. He would watch as Rodolphus slid his fingers into him, pressing him from the inside out and dragging his spleen from beneath his ribcage. Rabastan would let him eat it, if he chewed as slowly as he was now, if he let the blood run down his chin and drip onto Rabastan’s own chest, reminding him just how sick he was, how completely depraved his mind had become.  
Rabastan bit his lip, these were not the thoughts for polite family functions, they were for long empty nights when he had a gnawing in his stomach and an ache in his bones that no one else could satisfy. He had tried, tried very hard, to sate that throbbing, but no one else ever seemed to work. He’d tried so many pretty girls with sharp nails and red hair, girls that were happy to make him bleed if he would repay the favour. So it wasn’t that he hadn’t tried. If anything, he’d tried too hard, had too many nameless bodies float through his life, too many painful nobodies had fucked him and none of them had felt remotely right. That was why he still watched Rodolphus licking the juice off his lips because he was the only one who felt right.  
It was much too hot in the room, despite the coolness of the day, too hot and too close, almost claustrophobic. He found himself rubbing his thigh, slow, indulgent, fingers sliding over the curves and into dips, so provocative. He snatched his hand away and crossed his legs, squeezing his thighs together, and hoping that the ache might go away if he ignored it. Though in his heart, he knew it wouldn’t, the ache never subsided until it was satisfied, and it was only satisfied by filthy fantasies accompanied by filthy actions. Rabastan tried to relax, tried to breathe slowly and watch the light conversations that bubbled around the airy room. Listen to what Narcissa murmuring to her husband. Rabastan had always liked Narcissa with her gentleness, her calmness that seemed to pervade through every room. He would love to rip her apart and have Lucius make him pay for it. Because any pain was good pain, it didn’t matter where it came from be it love or hate or anything in between, just as long as it hurt, he could be a little satisfied. But no one would do it quite as well as Rodolphus, no one would take him apart with such skill: Lucius would be too quick, Bellatrix too crude, Evan too rough, Regulus too gentle. Only Rodolphus would be able to do it properly and now he was back to where he started, with the room too hot and a flush crawling up his neck.  
He wanted to leave, wanted to just go home and lie alone on his bed, touching himself until the ache subsided. But he couldn’t, not without conducting all the painful formalities, thanking and thanking again, arranging another time, saying goodbye to all the wives and kissing their hands, nodding curtly to husbands. Not to mention having to explain himself to his parents, and then tell Rodolphus. It was all so much effort, but then again, the aching in his stomach was becoming unbearable, an unceasing throbbing that made his hands restless and his throat dry.  
Rabastan clenched his fist under his robes, digging his nails into his palms, hoping they might bleed. They didn’t, he was being too gentle because if he actually tried, he’d be a groaning mess. Instead, he focussed his eyes on the floor, examining the carpet, watching the pattern of pinks seem to swirl before his eyes, exactly the shade of Rodolphus’ tongue as he licked his lips of the juice that dripped down his chin. That was all it took, Rodolphus’ tongue, for those lovely depraved images to slip back into his head. How pretty Rodolphus’ would be standing over him, how imposing, how forceful if he wanted to be. Pushing him against the wall and chewing on his neck, cutting him open until he stained the sheets, staining his chin red with blood and licking his lips as he swallowed down his insides. Just Rodolphus leaning over him and smirking and suggesting all sorts of horrific fantastic things, mumbling endless fantasies into his shoulder as he fucked him. Rodolphus saying the most appalling things over and over again, all the things that he had wanted to him for so long because he was Rabastan just as much as Rabastan wanted him. At that moment, Rodolphus had the audacity to look over and smile with his red stained teeth. That did it, Rabastan got up, leaving the room before did something completely stupid.


End file.
